


our secret fires

by boychik



Category: True Beauty - Yaongyi (Webcomic), 여신강림 | True Beauty (Korea TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, College, Depression, F/M, Friendship, Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-16 04:28:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28950414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boychik/pseuds/boychik
Summary: You come with Suho to America.
Relationships: Jugyeong Lim/Suho Lee
Kudos: 5





	our secret fires

You’re lying in your room scrolling Nstagram when Suho messages you. 

“Come out,” the yellow bubble reads.

“Now?” you write back. You look in the mirror, scowling at your red skin. Sometimes you wonder if the makeup makes it worse, but you double cleanse religiously, so perhaps it’s a matter of being born under an aesthetically challenged star. Lucky for you, Suho is face-blind or something, and for some unknown reason doesn’t care. 

The message pops up immediately. “Of course.”

You grab your jeans, change out of your pajamas, and run out into the street.

Beyond the gate, Suho’s shining yellow in the streetlight, looking like some kind of jaundiced angel. _What? Ew! Get ahold of yourself, Jugyeong._ You spill towards him.

“Lim Jugyeong.” Wasn’t it unfair enough that he was born with that face and body? Did the heavens above have to give him that voice too? _Stay focused_ , you tell yourself.

“There’s something I need to talk with you about,” he says. “Come with me.”

“We can’t talk here?” You gesture to your house, shooting him a puzzled look.

“Let’s go to the park,” he says.

You walk through the streets with Suho. The lamp lights shine bright on the brick walls and shrubbery and quiet, empty cars parked along the road. The air is cold and you hug your thin sweater a little closer to your body. You should have put on a coat. You warm up as you hurry alongside Suho until you’re skipping a little to keep up with his pace. When he notices, he slows down.

At the park, you both sit down on the swings. You shift from staring at the ground to peering at him from behind the chains.

“Jugyeong,” he says. “I want you to come with me to America.”

Your breath gets tangled on the way in. You press your hand to your chest to steady yourself.

He takes your hand in his own; your heart bobs unanchored. His face is serious, but his eyes are shining. “Do you want to come with me?”

*

You had never thought of the buses in Seoul as quiet until coming to Cambridge. The screaming train line to Boston, so different from the in-comparison quieter buses of Seoul. You don’t know anyone here, and not many people talk to you. You’re used to cities, though; the difference is that in Seoul people didn’t tend to mind their own business when it came to you.

The commute to school is long—no way you were getting into MIT, but there were plenty of other schools in the area you could go to, schools seeking any international student to boost their reputation—and their coffers. You started at one on the outskirts of Boston with an undeclared major. Certainly you’d be able to find your way eventually.

You check your phone; you’re about twenty minutes into your journey. Suho must already be in school. You try to imagine what he’s doing, what he’s thinking. _Is he in the lab now? Is he enjoying himself?_

The way things end up, it’s too noisy and frankly disconcerting to sleep on the train, so you end up messaging Seojun on the way to school. 

Bubbles pop up in quick succession:

_How’s your new neighborhood?_

_How is the food there?_

_Are you eating well?_

_Are you happy?_

He must be up late. _So many questions!_ you write. _I don't mind my new neighborhood, but it’s quite different. To be honest, I miss my mom's cooking. Anyway, how’s your day?_

In place of answering the last question, you just send a sticker.

Seojun sends a picture of you and him at your high school graduation.

Your heart aches the instant you see the thumbnail. You click your phone screen dark, locking the image away. You see your reflection in the instant before you shove your phone deep in your jacket pocket.

*

It’s not long before Seojun is sending you voice memos. A snippet of a song at night, a cheering encouragement during the day. His voice is steady and gentle.

 _Even if you’re far away,_ Seojun says, _your sun is still the same sun as mine and our moon is the same moon. The moon sets here and I’m shooting it around the world to you!_

His voice is funny and it makes you laugh, but all of a sudden tears are welling up on the train. You carefully press your fingertips to your face and tuck your tears into your fingernails. Absorb the saltwater into your skin and flick away the excess. Then there’s nothing left, like nothing was ever there.

 _Sua_ , you message her later, _Seojun is messaging me... what should I do?_

 _What is he saying?_ she writes back, hours later. The delay isn’t like her, but it’s merely the time zone magnifying your distance. These days, between dating, partying, class, and the occasional study session, Sua has an unpredictable sleep schedule.

You tell her, and she sends a laughing bunny sticker. _Enjoy it, girl!_ is all she writes, before sending you a picture of herself and her new boyfriend.

You send a laughing bunny sticker back.

*

Sometimes Suho sees Seojun crying and saying _I really loved you... I thought I really loved you._ The tears roll down his fresh face like dew off flower petals in the morning. Suho is sure he will heal like a growing flower too, peeling off his layers as they no longer suit him and casting them back into the ecosystem. At least Suho _wants_ to believe. Delinquent Seojun would not stay delinquent for long; underneath his exterior it was easy to see the functional man within. Han Seojun, upstanding member of society. Community contributor. Suho wishes he could smile like him. Cry like him, even.

Suho’s face feels as stiff as the cursed mask. Cracking underneath but no one can see. There’s something inside him that no one can see or fix, something that can’t be filled or sated or expressed or escaped. Jugyeong knows, sure, but does she _know_? 

The person who might have the closest chance of really knowing is Seojun, but obviously he’s as unreachable as the moon in a barrel.

He jerks when he hears the whir of a phantom call, but when he looks, his screen is serene. He flicks past his contacts in one motion, Han Seojun’s name blurring, eclipsed by Lim Jugyeong’s as he scrolls. There are so few names saved it’s two seconds before he reaches the end.

What was Seojun doing now? Did he stay in school, keep his job, return to training to become an idol? How he must have moved on in Suho’s absence—not that he had that much difficulty moving on in Suho’s presence, did he? But nonetheless—how Seojun moved on, how his father moved on, how we all move on, how memories disappear quietly like possessions burned in a secret fire, Seyeon forgotten as the world turns. There’s no memorial album this year or solo song release, just a banner on the company website. And maybe a few in memoriam signs in Seoul. Not that he can see much from Boston, anyway.

*

It kills Suho to see you like this. You come home and throw yourself on the bed and just cry and cry. You are miserable in Boston, classes in English make your head spin, and besides, it’s hard to make friends when you're in a program you chose to be able to accompany your boyfriend to America. You'd never tell Suho this, but you feel like your life is an afterthought. 

_Selfish, selfish,_ you tell yourself, even while sobbing. You want but you don’t want to bury your face in Suho’s chest, let his arms hold you tight. You know he’s hurting too, he’s just unwilling to show it. It makes you want to try things, to see how long he’ll keep defending the cracks in his mask.

Is it you or Suho who first talks of breaking up? It must have been you, you who tried to bait him so subtly to let down his guard, to exorcise his mask, before giving up and letting your frustration flow freely. Or was it him, no stranger to self-sabotage, lie twinning truth, pouring out hurt in the worst way, like a mirror.

Images flash in Suho’s mind, too; Jugyeong, Seyeon, Suho teetering on the edge of the roof, moments before the fall. Nothing about that darkness makes him want to share it with you—but if he could protect you, you wouldn’t be this miserable, would you?

You’re outside on the tiny balcony of your shared apartment. He’s on his knees, whispering something, but you can barely hear. It’s cold outside, breeze cutting through your clothes, just like the night this all started. You throw your arms around Suho, hugging him under the moonlight. “Don’t worry so much about me,” you tell him. You press his fingertips to your dry cheeks. “See, Suho? I’m okay.”


End file.
